Ambassadors of Nations
by Wolfeschatten
Summary: It started with the dreams. Then the monsters attacked, they had always believed they were alone, the only true deities. Now as the darkness melds to one, camps of different cultures join forces to destroy chaos. For the Greeks were wrong...they are not alone. COMMENT! In place of HoO. (Myths of many cultures.)
1. Greek: Percy

**Greek**

* * *

**"First of all Chaos came into being"—Hesiod**

* * *

Percy stepped back from the decaying monster, the flesh already turning to ice and falling away as cerulean sand. The sight disgusted him, a constant reminder of the war he had fought and the friends that he had lost. He had thought the monsters would lay off for a while. He deserved a reprieve, but it seemed like the monsters had been coming more often than not. His junior year was swarming with creatures of Greek mythology, some he hadn't even heard of or seen before.

That alone was enough to unnerve Percy. That and the dreams. Percy shook himself, clearing his head of all his morbid and depressing thoughts. He searched the sky for any sort of indication of the time but to no avail. He really needed to get a watch, he thought, because trying to rely on the light-polluted stars was idiotic. It must have been past eight o'clock, and he had told his mom he'd be home by seven thirty. But then that monster had come out of nowhere and attacked him.

Again, Percy shook his head. He didn't have time to think of that stupid monster, even if it was some new species. Actually, Percy mused, it wasn't probably anything special, and he was just being a moron as usual. It did look strange though: the snout long and canine with stubbled wire shooting out in every which direction; its back bent and misshapen like it had been broken and healed improperly; its skin Snow White, its beady, crimson eyes malicious and murderous. When the creature breathed, ice and cold emanated from its breath.

It had limped a few blocks, following Percy from the little corner cafe he had stopped in. At first, Percy thought he was just being paranoid, but as the beast got closer, Percy had heard the labored, puffing breathing for far too long. Percy had ducked just in time for a club to swing over his head, the temperature dropping in seconds.

The fight continued in an alley, away from prying, mortal eyes. Percy didn't want to take the chance of a mortal seeing an old man getting mugged by some skater punk. The troll was no match for Percy's bronze blade, which sliced cleanly through the creature's abdomen, piercing it's heart. The one thing that didn't sit right with Percy, no matter how he thought of it, was what it said before falling to shattered ice. It looked straight at the son of Poseidon and growled—its voice garbled and animalistic—"_Tivars Blöd_."

Percy was still mulling over the last words when he came into his little apartment, his first vision being that of his mother holding an envelope in her hand and her expression utter excitement and fear. The envelope was big, large enough for multiple papers to fit into it.

Percy stopped dead in his tracks, his keys missing the oyster shell in which they lived. Paul walked in behind Sally Jackson, his face also a mix between sympathy and congratulations.

"Is that it?" Percy asked tentatively.

They both nodded. "We waited to open it," Sally said.

Percy numbly took the heavy paper into his sweaty palms. "It's heavy. That's a good thing right?" Percy fiddled with it, tugging at the sides then lifting it to his ear and shaking it. He repeated the process a few times then held the envelope like it was poisonous. "Maybe we should eat. It's getting late—"

"Just open it!" His mother cried, she then clapped her hands over her mouth with an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, maybe yes, food's all ready."

"No." Percy conceded. "I have to open it at some point."

Percy once again tugged on the lip of the paper, this time ripping away the paper like a child on Christmas. He read and re-read the letter four times before looking at his mother through a haze. His mother's face fell and she came forward to crush her son in a consoling hug.

"I'm in," Percy whispered.

"What?" His mother stopped.

"Dear Perseus Jackson," he read in a daze, "We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to the Museum of Natural History. You will work under the watch of Dr. Evelyn Carahan. You will commence your internship on the twenty-sixth of August, 2013."

His mother clasped her hands together, smothering the smile full of pride. Paul patted Percy on the back, expressing full congratulations, while his mother crushed her son in a hug that conveyed her feelings. But Percy was still stuck on the fact he had gotten in. He hadn't believed he would get in and hadn't thought of applying to the internship, but Annabeth pushed him to go for it. _'It's a one in a lifetime opportunity, Seaweed Brain._' She had convinced him that his skill in Greek strategy and living and surviving in a world of mythology would give him a boost in the historical fields. That and because Goode High School required their juniors to do an internship persuaded Percy to choose the museum.

Percy felt like he was floating, a nervous flutter settling in his stomach keeping him aloof and out of touch with what was happening in the little apartment in downtown Manhattan. His mother couldn't keep her hands off of him, flattening his hair then shuffling it around to keep him looking younger.

The sound of a cork firing out of its bottle startled Percy. He looked to Paul, who was holding a bottle of foaming liquid.

"Champagne?" Percy laughed.

Paul shook his head. "You kidding? No, this is fizzy apple juice."

Percy laughed again and accepted the bubbling caramel-colored drink. He was about to drink when his mother held up her glass and lifted it to Percy.

"To Percy and his internship at the Museum of Natural History. I'm so proud of you."

"Here, here," concluded Paul, winking at Percy and nodding to the glass. Percy sniffed it before drinking the apple juice. It burned slightly as it went down, leaving a bitter aftertaste. Percy smiled into his cup, silently chuckling at the alcoholic acid in his stomach. Paul and Percy had a running joke after Percy had switched Paul's wine glass with Percy's sparkling, red grape juice at Christmas. Now, Paul slips in a dollop of something on special occasions or switches the glass entirely.

They had finished off the rest of the bottle, when the phone rang. Sally Jackson tipped the last of her drink into her mouth, smiling and laughing at a joke before answering.

"Hello? Oh, Annabeth, how are you?"

Percy's head shot up at the mention of her name, lifting his eyebrows at his mother.

"I'm assuming you want to talk to Percy?.. Sure, I'm putting him on now."

Percy grabbed the phone, leaning against the kitchen table, the phone tucked between his shoulder and ear.

"Hey," he greeted kind of awkwardly.

"Hey," she said, pausing momentarily. In the background, Percy could hear Annabeth's half-brothers yelling and fighting over a toy then her stepmom chastising them. "So, did you hear back yet?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I got it today."

"Oh, Percy, I'm sorry. You're bound to get into one of your other choices. It's not the end of the world that you weren't accepted—"

"What?" Percy asked, laughing. "No, Annabeth, I got it. I start Monday."

"Oh," she said, startled. Her voice changed completely, rising an octave and carrying a happy tune. "Congratulations! And if you get a card in the mail from me, just ignore it."

"Wow, Annabeth. Where is the confidence? I'm hurt." Percy whined. His mom threw him an amused glance, but he pretended not to see, feeling warmth crawling up the back of his neck.

"Hey, I had every confidence in you," Annabeth defended. "I am just prepared for every situation."

"Mhm."

"Shut up, Seaweed brain. Just don't screw up." She said it jokingly, but his mind flashed to the weird happenings and the frequent monster attacks. _Should he be around thousands of artifacts while he was attracting trolls? Was it retribution for Kronos, or his freakishly strong half-blood smell?_ And he couldn't help but wonder about the dreams. When he didn't reply for a minute or so, Annabeth asked, "Percy? You still there?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I'm just tired. Listen have you—"

"Shut up, Matthew! Bobby, just give him the toy!" Annabeth yelled into the phone, causing Percy to drop the phone and clutch his ear, which throbbed from the sudden scream. "Sorry," came a muffled voice from the ground. Percy carefully picked it up and held it away from him. "What were you saying before?"

"Nothing. You coming up for winter break?"

"I don't know," Annabeth replied, much quieter compared to before. "Dad wants to go looking at schools. On the west coast."

"Oh."

"But I may be able to come and visit some schools out there," she said hopefully, the conversation suddenly becoming awkward. "Anyway, you sound tired, so..."

"Yeah, okay. Night. I'll see you, when I see you, I guess."

"Bye."

Percy stared at the phone in his hand. He seemed more grounded than he had before. His mom pursed her lips but said nothing, nudging him toward the kitchen table. Percy didn't talk much during dinner, letting Paul and his mom lead the discussion. His mind started to wonder when the discussion of grading school papers came up from both ends. His mother was still taking the night classes and Paul was grading freshman, end-of-term papers.

Percy allowed his thoughts jump from one subject to another, not bothering to try to make sense of it. He just wanted to avoid thinking of the desert and land of snow. The mashed-potatoes are steaming hot, his mind said. The steam curled off his fork, the tines replicating Riptide's blade after it had shattered the troll, the ice that had curled around the bronze metal, the garbled growl that had been the monster's voice.

"Mom," he asked suddenly. He glanced up and saw both his mom and Paul looking at him. "Do you know of any monster that is—like a troll?"

His mom was silent for a while, taken aback from his random question. "What do you mean? A random troll or a Greek monster?"

"A Greek monster."

His mom pursed her lips, sliding back in her chair and staring at nothing in particular. Finally, she shook her head and said, "I can't think of a troll-like creature except for a cyclops. What spurred on that question?"

"Nothing. Just curious."

Percy helped clear the table, washing the dishes mindlessly. _What was it the troll called him? Trevor blurd?_

He climbed into his bed, clicking off the light on his bed stand, washing everything in darkness. The room looked eerie, different shades of black clouding his room in a fog, his walls almost looked demonic. Posters of his favorite bands screamed at him, cruel smiles stretching the members' faces. But he would rather face the monsters hiding under the bed than face the dreams again. It has been over week since they started, and Percy has begun dreading going to sleep at night. He would wake up each morning even more tired than before he went to bed. But he couldn't _not_ sleep. He could only hope. His last thought was _not again_, and the darkness swallowed him.

_Percy gets to his feet, brushing the dewy grass from his back and pants. He turns in a circle and everywhere he looks is a sea of green. The blades of grass churn and writhe from an invisible wind, a sheet of fog sinking from the grey sky. The wall of fog rolls closer to Percy, obscuring his meager view of the field._

_"Strange," he says. "It's so familiar. Why can't I remember?"_

_The field isn't like his other dreams, yet it is similar. In all of his dreams, Percy is conscience but not. He remembers everything but he follows his destiny and the rules of the game. There is no reason for Percy to walk forward, but he does._

_He walks across the fog-laden land for hours, only being able to see a few steps in front of him. What he can see never changes except for the occasional hill and dip in the symmetrical world. The stars blink into existence, the heroes and warriors of old running and battling across the black sky. A cold wind whispers and brushes Percy's skin, bringing the echoes of hounds howling in its caress. But the hounds are not the only thing that disrupts the eternal hush. Across the dale, a lady clad in billowing white beckons to him._

_"She is beautiful," murmurs Percy, speaking as if in a trance._

_The lady, her endless age frozen in youth, smiles at him, her white dress ripples in the wind, her hands reaching to him. She dances back and forth and lures Percy closer with her finger. Her heavenly white, luscious hair swings around her, her pale skin glowing like fairy dust. Her mystery draws him in. Her sweet voice sings to him, enthralling his mind._

_For a moment, Percy is tempted to follow, but something—a feeling—holds him back._

_"I wouldn' follow if I were yeh," a low-pitched voice warns Percy from his right._

_Percy stops mid-step, and he stays still, heeding the warning. The lady stops smiling. Instead she snarls monstrously, her hands grow talons, the before-beautiful white turns hideous and so bright that the fog burns and coils around her._

_Percy turns towards the voice and is met with a hill littered with stone. Piles of haggard rock are scattered along the side, piled on one another to form archaic temples, much like those of Easter Island. Sitting on one of said ledges is a small man, reclining, laughing, and smoking a long pipe. He is dressed from head to toe in a moss green, his hat and shoes being the only black articles. His face is scruffy with grey stubble, his brunette hair speckled with grey and curling out from under his topper hat. Each of his clothes is patched with scraps of yellow, yet he holds himself like he is important. He notices Percy watching and laughs again, smiling like a devil, his fat cheeks pulling thin to show yellow teeth._

_"Who is she?" Percy asks._

_"She is de White lady," the man replies. His voice is thick with an accent, his words twist with his brogue._

_"What does she want?"_

_"What doesn' she wan'?" The little man demands, shoving the pipe in his mouth then blowing out very large rings._

_"Who are you?" Percy asks, after watching the smoke rings dissipate and emulate the fog surrounding the moor._

_"'hoo are you?" The little man mimics._

_Percy is annoyed and confused enough only a cackling sound comes out. The little man chuckles and tucks his still lit pipe into his suit pocket._

_"Don' you know?"_

_"What?" Percy asks._

_"I asked, ''hoo are you,' and you replied—" the man continues to replicate the sound Percy had made before._

_"I asked who you were?" Percy says, beginning to get annoyed._

_"Yes, and I know who I am, but I asked if you knew who yeh were and clearly by your reply, you 'ave no idea."_

_"I know who I am. I am Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon and hero of Olympus."_

_The little man laughs heartedly and jumps to his feet, hopping down to get a closer look at Percy. When the man comes to stand next to him, Percy realizes the little man barely comes to reach his waist._

_"Dat's an awful lot a titles for a boy so small."_

_Percy bites his tongue to keep from retorting that the man himself is not so tall and therefore shouldn't be making assessments of Percy's worth. The dwarf circles Percy and looks him up and down, taking his pipe back out and sticking it into his mouth. He smirks and nods like he has decided Percy is worthy of his help._

_"Come," the little man orders. Percy having no reason not to, follows. The man brings Percy to the rock bench he had been sitting on, and in his place are three cauldrons. Three different colored smokes curl and spill from the mouth, a fire in each. Percy runs his hand through the golden flame in the center cauldron, the pure aureate tongues licking his hand. To the right an emerald jade sprouts from the iron like a tree, to the left an amethyst bursts from its cauldron._

_"Choose."_

_Percy stares at them. "Why?"_

_"Choose. But be warned: if you choose wrong, the woman will wail for you."_

_"What if I choose right?"_

_"If you choose right, you will lose what you have but find what you seek and gain a victory at the cost of a loss."_

_Percy observes the three black cauldrons, the golden flame pulls his mind from each of the others. He wonders what they symbolize, and what the dwarf means by a woman wailing for him._

_"Choose. Either way, the woman will wail."_

_Percy turns away from the cauldrons and instead searches for the lady he had seen earlier. She hadn't been crying, but he wonders if she the one the little man is speaking of. He can no longer see the white lady._

_"Who was that lady?_

_The man stops smiling and laughing, his face growing wary. He glances around him, taking in deep breaths. "How thick this bloody _ceo_ is. Better watch your step, _boyo_. One wrong step in this fog and you'll be losing that pretty little armor you have on your skin."_

_Percy is about to ask how he knew about the curse, when he hears the hounds baying again. They are louder than before, closer. He turns in circles to search for them, readying Riptide for an attack, and instead sees a woman._

_She is not the white lady from before, but is ghoulish, a green aura surrounding her. Her clothes are in tatters, her cloak torn and looking as if the hounds had tried to tear her to pieces. She is standing perfectly straight, her head held back so only her mouth is visible. Her lips are open wide, twisted grotesquely as she howls in unbearable pain. Her weeping is beyond human pain, beyond mortal pain, beyond suffering that is anything but grief. Grief from the death of a loved one. She screams and wails rhythmically, tear into Percy's mind, until his eyes shoot open._

Percy's eyes stared listlessly at his cracked ceiling. Beside him on his dresser, his black alarm clock blared and screamed at him, sounding pathetically quiet compared to the grieving woman from his dream. He let it ring uncontested, his mind whirling from the two women and the dwarf demanding he choose. He didn't even move when his mother called to him from the kitchen, the smell of blue eggs and ham wafting in.

"Percy, hurry up and get dressed. You're going to be late to your first day at work."

Percy tugged the blankets over his head, effectively cutting off the sharp light from his bedroom windows, his throat making a sound between a groan and saying he'll be up in a moment.

He wasn't so sure he wanted to work at the museum anymore, but he couldn't back out, and his dreams never stopped him before. Not even when they were disturbingly the same for over a week. Even when they change from place to place, they are practically the same.

"Percy!" His mother yelled, the crash of a pillow hitting his thin door frame rattling Percy enough to actually start moving. Half an hour later and dressed in a neatly pressed buttoned down shirt, he was shoving through people to get to the museum. The subway station wasn't as packed as usual, but it was still busy. Percy kept his headphones in, his music blasting, while he waited so he didn't hear the banter of nearby families or work goers, but he could still see them.

He glanced from side to side, searching the faces of each passenger until the tram came. There were some men in business suits, their briefcases the same ordinary, boring color; some women with briefcases and the long, tight work skirts; some were also kids with headphones in just like Percy. They moodily stared straight ahead and ignored everyone they deemed unimportant. Finally, when the tram came, Percy was forced to stand because there were no other seats and he felt bad when an old man had nowhere to go.

* * *

Percy just stood in front of the museum, looking like an idiot, but he couldn't believe he had gotten the internship. He still didn't get that good of grades and he still had the record of blowing up a school bus with an antique cannon, but the museum had looked past that and given him free roam with really old, really delicate artifacts.

Percy took a deep breath and jogged up the stone steps, but not before passing a really short man who was standing on the corner of the sidewalk. His green cabby hat rested on top of his curly brown hair, his green suit incongruous with the early morning museum goers. He looked exactly as the little man from the dream. Percy looked back to where he thought he saw the man, but he was gone. There were only cars and the usual city traffic in his place. Percy shook his head and entered the museum.

* * *

"Keep up, Jackson! I haven't got all day."

Percy sneeringly mimicked George Sturgis behind him, the wiry man waddling obliviously ahead. George Sturgis, the assistant manager of the Museum's staff, was about seven feet tall, but that was the only advantage he had. He had no muscle, no bulk, and no tact. His stringy reddish brown hair was closely cut to his head, and his nose was double the size of a normal nose. He swaggered as he walked, his sweater and tight pants awkwardly shifting with his body.

_That has to chafe_, thought Percy. A shiver ran down his back, his whole body shaking, and Percy spun on the spot. He looked around him, but it was early in the morning and there weren't many people in theMedieval section of the museum. The only people he saw were tourists and some kids. A few were seniors following a self-guided tour, taking their time staring at the information boards before meandering through the rest of the museum. The rest were students: some fourth graders in a large group crowding around a display case in armor. The only two that didn't belong among the mass of little kids were two Asian boys. It wouldn't have been that strange but they were glaring so intently that they looked as if they might smash the glass and run away with the armor then and there.

"Jackson!" George snapped.

"Right. Coming!" Percy called back, shuffling to the end of the hall and the door marked 'No Entry, Authorized Personnel Only.'

George stuffed an access key in Percy's hand then took it back and swiped it on the keypad beside the door.

He did it twice, the second time mockingly slow to make sure a Percy understood what to do. Percy restrained himself from smacking George right between the eyes. It would no doubt have been satisfying, but Percy knew his mom would be disappointed if he lost his internship on his first day.

The room he had entered with his newly acquired badge was about the size of a small auditorium. It was filled with tables covered in old, broken artifacts, weapons, partial mosaics and pottery. The walls were lined with them, metal barred shelves laced with any old artifact that Percy could imagine. On the other wall, more completed artifacts were banded together by cultural origin. A few statues of a guy with a hawk's head stood guard over Greek pots and an old mannequin dressed in old Japanese samurai amor bordered the corner of the far northern wall.

Studiously observing a piece of metal under a bright microscope, a woman, with her curly brunette hair pulled back, at by one of the first tables, her back to the door. She wore a long, white lab coat, blue gloves poking out one of her pockets. Black rimmed glasses perched at the end of her nose, her eyes squinted closely at the talisman in her hand. She ran her long, thin fingers over the smooth edge and continued to work even after George cleared his throat to get her attention. She was younger than Percy had thought, maybe in her late thirties. George, his attempts to gain the doctor's notice, came around the table and bent down to see what she was working on and, in doing so, went to put his hand down on the metal workbench. She caught his wrist and finally looked at him through the thick glasses.

"I don't think the curator would be very happy if you broke a two-thousand year old bracelet." She nodded to where George was about to put his hand. A small wooden ring rested inches away from the edge, its simplicity uninteresting and unnoticeable.

"Uh," George cleared his throat and stood up straighter, "no, sorry. Um, Ms—"

"Doctor."

"Right. _Doctor_ Carahan, this is Percy Jackson." When the doctor didn't react, he explained further. "Your intern."

"I remember."

George awkwardly stood still. He shifted from foot to foot, his neck turning amusing shades of red, while he thought of how to reply. His eyes drifted from the young woman to Percy, who still stood by the door, not trusting himself to wander through the artifacts and not break anything. He was torn between being really excited, amused, and fearful of working with Dr. Carahan and disbelieving that he actually trusted himself to apply for working with antiques and priceless artifacts.

"Good bye, George." said Dr. Carahan.

George's face blushed, which he tried to hide by turning his face and shoving past Percy. George had just made it to the door, when she called over her shoulder, "and, George? It's _Mrs_. I'm married." She wiggled her left hand so that the diamond was caught by the lights in the room, sending rainbows and sparkling stars across the room. George dipped his head and left the room, his hands clenched. Percy was debating following George and trying one of his other internships when the doctor called to him, not even looking back.

"Why are you standing by the door? You can't do anything over there?" She demanded. Percy, for the first time, noticed her accent. It wasn't very strong, but it was obvious that she was from London.

"Um, nothing," he stuttered.

When he was standing beside her, the doctor looked him over, judging his appearance and clothes, and seemed to come to a conclusion within minutes. Percy, trying to avoid her eyes, looked at the two-thousand year old bracelet George had almost crushed with his boney palm. It was even plainer than he had originally thought. There were no designs or anything that gave away its uniqueness. In fact, the closer he looked, Percy thought he could see the residue of glue from a store tag. He looked back at the doctor and saw her smiling at him

"This isn't actually ancient, is it?" He asked, though he was fairly sure he knew the answer.

"I really can't stand him."

Percy found himself smiling, almost forgetting about his bothersome dreams. He stuck out his hand awkwardly but relaxed when she took it, shaking once. "Percy Jackson."

"Evelyn Carahan." She waited patiently, and a little bemusedly, as he awkwardly shifted under her gaze.

"Your space is over there," she pointed to a little desk off in the corner. "Your job is to watch, learn, and contribute to categorizing artifacts. Understand?"

Percy nodded.

"Good." She watched him a moment, and he stood there until he got the hint and shuffled off to his desk. It was perfectly clear of any effects, a simple flat table with file cabinets underneath and a rolling office chair parked in front. He sat down tentatively and waited. He hadn't thought to bring anything from home and so he sat, bouncing his knee up and down.

Dr. Carahan wandered over to Percy within a few minutes. Her head was bent over a thick book, her thick glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She placed the book in front of her and rested her hand on the old cover while regarding him coolly.

"This book," she began, "is very old. But it was kept horribly. Your job for today is to find the order of the pages and replace them. After you are finished, I will reseal them to the binding."

"Okay," Percy replied. He wasn't at all sure how he would go about doing it, but he couldn't say that to his boss on his first day. He was convinced he was going to do well in the museum. He was not going to destroy artifacts, lure monsters, or blow up any section of the building while he was employed there.

The doctor nodded her approval and returned to her desk, rifling through a few papers that were stacked in the corner. Percy regarded the unbridled mess of papers and attempted to fit them into a neat pile, but he couldn't focus. There was one thing that had been bothering him since he had gotten the acceptance letter.

"Doctor?" he called.

Dr. Carahan lifted her head and waited for Percy's question patiently.

Percy cleared his throat and awkwardly wiped his hands on his pants. It was difficult to find the right words, he didn't want to sound ungrateful but, "Why me?" he coughed again and clarified, "I mean, why choose me—someone who has gotten expelled from every school he has attended and blown up a school bus using a Revolutionary War cannon—out of any other student?"

"Do you think I chose wrong?" Dr. Carahan asked. Percy couldn't bring himself to reply so he remained silent, but so did the doctor. She was observing him, waiting for a response. Her expression was difficult to decipher. Her lips were set in a hard manner, not unfriendly but still unwelcome. Percy was afraid he had offended her and felt a feeling of defensiveness course though his veins.

"No," he said finally.

"I chose you because you weren't like the other students. I was given full range and saw potential in you. If I was wrong and you have nothing to contribute to this internship, I'm sure George has some dimwitted cousin who would love to fetch my shoes from the cobbler."

Percy's eyes glazed over with a fierce determination, and he clenched his jaw. He shook his head and held the cool expression of his mentor until she turned back to her work. Percy slowly marched back to his desk and began to sort through the masses of paper he had been tasked with.

"I have a feeling we will get along quite well, Mr. Jackson."

* * *

For the most part of the day, Percy had done exceedingly well. His boss had been watching him with approval, praising him on his knowledge of Ancient Greece and cultural references. Along with sorting the bestiary, Percy was running back and forth with artifacts that were approved and cleaned by Dr. Carahan

"Do me a favor, Percy, and run out and grab me a coffee. I don't think I can stand drinking anymore of this—" she frowned at her cup, "dishwater they call tea."

Percy smiled. "Sure." He was sure he had seen a Starbucks close to the museum, and if not, one of the street vendors was bound to have a decent cup of coffee. He was about to leave when Evelyn held out a ten dolor bill. He nodded his thanks and jogged out of the museum.

Turns out, his idea of near the museum, was four blocks away. He laughed sardonically that whenever one looks for something he can never find it, but when he isn't, they are everywhere. Percy turned in a circle at the edge of a street corner and caught sight of those trucks that sold food and drinks out of the side, Abudantia's Café Excellente. There was only a small line, and a delicious smell of morning sandwiches and coffee wafting across the street. Enticed by the mouth-watering aroma, Percy jogged across the street, nearly missing a taxi cab. The cabby yelled and swore at him but continued his route nonetheless.

A young woman with long, red hair was the only attendant in the mobile truck. She beamed down at all of her customers and clearly enjoyed her job. She gave them extra portions, her storage in abundance, and always smiled deviously before saying thank you for the coupon, which she used to cut the price in half. Percy took his place in the line, and soon he began to tap his foot incessantly. He was never one for waiting in lines. Because of the cafe's popularity, there was a good ten people before him; although, each patron was receiving his or her beverage within seconds.

"Percy," came a voice from behind him. Percy turned to see a woman trying to smile at him. Everything about her appearance was careless and sloppily done. Normally interwoven with gold or silver ribbons, her long chocolate brown hair was pulled loosely into a braid. Her white dress, that normally rippled and shone like a river under the full moon, was wrinkled and creased, like it was thrown to the floor and stomped on. Dark circles creased her brown eyes, lines of fatigue and annoyance covered by a tired smile. But even as someone fighting the looks of jaded tears and haggard eyes, she was as intimidating as the last time he saw her.

"Hera," he sighed. He was not interested in conversing with the queen of gods, not when it usually meant that something bad was going to happen. Hera acted like she hadn't heard his tone and plastered a renewed smile on her face.

"Hello, Percy. How are you?"

Her question took Percy by surprise. She had never asked him how he was before. It didn't fit her.

"Fine," he replied and shifted forward a few paces in line. Hera followed.

"You look tired."

Percy scoffed. "You can talk," he muttered. Hera's eyes narrowed, but she elected not to say anything. Percy couldn't help but feel anxious as he felt her gaze rake up and down his form. She tried to hide it, but her expression wavered and changed from her conventional smile.

"What is happening in the world now? Avoiding making wars with any more enemies?"

Percy attempted to hide his feelings and remarked, "You wouldn't be worried about me, now would you?"

She scowled at him and drew herself up to her full height so that she was taller than him. "I would never be concerned with something so paltry. I simply wanted to know what was happening in the mortal world."

Percy shook his head and partly smiled. And there was Hera's true nature. No matter how she tried to act interested in demigods' lives, she truly didn't care.

"What will you have, darlin'?"

Percy started back. He hadn't realized that it was finally his turn at the cart. He fumbled through his words and finally ordered two medium coffees. He shifted awkwardly and chose not to look at the patrons behind him, who were scowling at how long he had taken to order.

"That's five dollars and twenty cents," Abae, the cashier, smiled.

Percy shuffled his pockets to find the ten Dr. Carahan had given him, but Hera held out the money. Percy stared at her in complete shock, his mouth gaping like a fish. He was so shocked that he didn't even notice how prudently she held the money and how sure she was not to touch Abae.

"Thank you," Percy said haltingly. He still had trouble understanding why Hera was doing something nice, or even why she was there.

The goddess waved away his thanks and continued to regard him with her curious expression.

"It is nothing when you have the money of the world in your power." When she said it like that, Percy had to admit buying two coffees was the least she could do for him. "I must be returning to Olympus."

"Well, thanks for—checking up on me...I think," he murmured.

"Farewell, Mr. Jackson." She nodded to him then turned her back, taking a few steps before remembering something, and turned back. "And you wouldn't have had any dreams prophetic dreams that will foresee Olympus's downfall lately, have you?" She asked offhandedly, like someone asking if they had read the news about a local athlete.

Percy laughed nervously, his mind flitting back to his dreams again. They were not foretelling of the death of Olympus, but they were bothersome. However, before he could reply, his pocket began to vibrate viciously. Percy set his one of his coffees on the condiment table next to the truck and pulled out his battered phone, the number 718-654-7898 displayed on the cracked screen. Normally demigods would never even touch a cell phone, but since it was Percy's second to last year at home and he was confident enough in his fighting capability that he and his mother agreed it was time for him to have a phone.

"Hello?" He answered tentatively. Although he possessed a cellphone, he didn't use it regularly, nor did he give the number out readily.

"Percy? It's Dr. Carahan."

Percy released the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. It was only his supervisor. Hera gave him a bemused smirk but waited patiently.

"Where are you?" Carahan continued. "I thought you went to go get coffee?"

"I did, I just—uh—ran into...an old friend."

"Well, those pages aren't going to organize themselves, Mr. Jackson."

"Right. Sorry, I'll be right back." Percy hung up the phone and turned back to the goddess. She simply regarded him, a pensive serious aura surrounding her fatigued features. "Sorry, I have to go." He picked his coffee back up and tipped it towards Hera, "thanks for the coffees again.

"You're welcome, Jackson."

Percy started to walk away, back towards the museum on Central Park West. He had made it across the street when he heard Hera whisper to him, but she was nowhere near him. He saw her, standing exactly where she was before, and she was speaking as though Percy was a foot away, not fifty.

"Beware, Perseus. Even noble choices end in tragedy."

* * *

Her words still rang in his ears, when Percy returned to the museum. _Even noble choices end in tragedy_. The entire walk back to his internship was a blur of motion and numbing movement. The cars, honking angrily, the disapproving glances from George, and the questionable looks from Carahan barely scratched Percy's consciousness.

He was more focused on the two words that cycled through his mind and never ceased: not again. They were thought in dread but also dripped in incredulity. He had fought a war already, been back in time,* and faced the wrath of plenty of gods and titans. The dreams were enough to send someone spiraling into insanity, but now he had some crazy goddess sending him cryptic messages that parallel those from a gnome scared of a lady in white.

Percy began to rifle through his pile of papers, as he had plopped down in his seat moments before and stared at the book for minutes. They were old sheets, the paper turned crispy and yellowed by age. Many of them were filled with myths and pictures from old stories. The language made no sense to Percy, but the gibberish helped keep his mind in check, the strange writing unaffected by his dyslexia. Much of the letters were scratches made with a quill, forming no known words in Percy's mind. But he didn't mind. He concentrated mostly on the pages, which were in complete disarray as the first page was next to the three-hundred and twenty-second.

He consulted the sheet, which the doctor had given him with the numbers in ogham, and connected the numbers with the order. Within a half hour, Percy proudly stacked his pile and slipped them in between the two leather bindings. He was feeling very proud and content with his work, which is until he counted the pages he'd completed. He'd only found fifteen out of around five hundred.

He consulted the sheet, which the doctor had given him with the numbers in ogham, and connected the numbers with the order. Within a half hour, Percy proudly stacked his pile and slipped them in between the two leather bindings. He was feeling very proud and content with his work, which was until he counted the pages he'd completed. He'd only ordered fifteen out of around five-hundred pages.

He groaned, and loudly. He heard the cackle of Dr. Carahan from across the room. Percy was about to continue to complain about the amount of pages when a specific image caught his eye. A man was sketched roughly on one of the pages. He had a long, pointed nose with beady little eyes and a bushy beard. His hat was tall and patched, as was the rest of his clothes. Percy tried to decipher the passage under the sketch, but the writing was in some pre-English language and made about as much sense as the scratch writing.

He was so intent on the picture that he jumped to attention when a hand landed on his shoulder. The doctor was looking at the page with mild interest. Her brown eyes roamed the page, but her focus shifted to the fifteen pages stuffed into the book.

"Your making good progress," she commended. "George only found five pages in an hour last time he tried."

"Huh. Uh, Dr. Carahan, do you know what this is?"

She took the page from Percy. "Yes, it's a bauchan, I believe."

"And what is a bauchan exactly?"

She thought a moment before answering. She regarded the writing, mouthing the words as she read the passage. "From what I know, they are mischievous creatures. Somewhat like Scottish leprechauns, they play pranks and jokes on travelers. But here it says—one must always take care when a bauchan reveals itself. The hobgoblin creates havoc and danger, similar to the welsh knockers, but also take head to its warnings. 'When need arises, the bauchan sees the truth and gives travelers the choice.'"

The blood drained from Percy's face, leaving him pale and breathless. Carahan didn't notice, or find it important, and continued to read to herself. The passage spoke of the Tales of the West Highlands and the different situations of the Bauchan. The most popular was that of Callum MacIntosh whose farm was haunted by a bauchan. For years the farmer tried to rid himself of the goblin, but the creature manifested itself in the home and continued to wreak havoc. But whenever Callum was in trouble, the bauchan helped him. One day, the bauchan came to Callum and offered him two cauldrons, and the farmer chose. Soon after, Callum made his way to New York, and the bauchan followed. Callum was an old man and poor by that time so the bauchan cleared his field and transformed into a goat.

Dr. Carahan set down the page and gave Percy a sympathetic smile, though Percy was only barely aware. He heard something about getting as far as he could but to go home at five. There was no point to get sick of the job on the first day, she had smiled honestly. But Percy's mind was still on Hera's message and the overly incredulous thought that had been echoing around in his head since the dreams began: not again.

He could not believe the gods were dragging him into something just a few years later. Was it so impossible to give him a nice, quiet life after what he had been through, Percy demanded incredulously. He did his work in a trance, completing a quarter of the book by the time it was five. He didn't notice until the lights began to dim that it was time for him to go home. After he had gathered the last bit of paper and neatly stored it away, he turned to find Dr. Carahan looking intently at him.

"What?" He asked.

"Just thinking," she replied, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was way past five, closer to half past seven. "I think I made the right choice. I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Jackson."

She turned and left without waiting for a reply. Percy wandered back through the halls slowly, trying to commit the layout to memory. The pathway from the lab to the front door was a long and windy route, but Percy didn't mind. Ever since he was a kid, he had wanted to see a museum at night—like in that Ben stiller movie—and now as he wandered past the Medieval Exhibit with old weapons and torture devices from the different countries and the stuffed safari animals, he couldn't help but think how creepy the museum was. Weapons used to smash their enemies' heads in glowed in their glass containers, a crossbow and long bows stacked besides each other, a suit of armor whose eye holes seemed to follow him all the way to the front lobby.

Percy nodded good-bye to the security guard at the desk, holding up his security badge to him as he walked by. Aaron, Percy deciphered, smiled pack and returned to reading his book. Embarrassingly, Percy walked into one of the doors that had already been locked. Great first impression, Percy sighed.

* * *

His mom was exactly where he had left her in the morning: hunched over her laptop, her bathrobe crumpled and tea-stained, glasses perched on the top of her head. However stressed she looked, she smiled cheerfully when Percy dropped his keys on the dresser.

"Hi, honey, how was your day?" She asked. "Paul's run out to get Thai food, sound good?"

Percy nodded, not feeling up to answering with a complete sentence. Sally Jackson's face slid to a frown when she saw how exhausted her son looked, worry in every inch of her face.

"Was it really that bad?" She asked hesitantly.

"No," came Percy's muffled response from the couch, where he had dropped onto face down.

"Was it that good?"

"No."

Sally paused. "Do you want blue cookies?"

"No." Percy's head shot back up once his brain had comprehended the question. "I mean yes."

His mom sighed, walking over to sit by Percy. He scooted down to make room for her, kicking his shoes off in the process, his legs kicking in the air, his arms lying listlessly against his sides.

"Want to talk about it?" When Percy didn't reply, she tried once more. "Does this have to do with the troll you asked about earlier?"

"Yes," Percy breathed in heavily, holding his breath until he was hearing the rhythmic thump of his heart. "I ran into one about a week ago. I've never seen anything like it. And when I killed it, it didn't dissolve like a normal monster."

"How so?"

"I don't know. It kinda shattered into blue ice. Most monsters when you kill them, they blow away into a pile of golden dust. "Percy tugged at his hoodie's sleeve. "And I've been having a really weird day." He continued to tell his mom of his dreams—the most recent being about the bauchan on the rocks and the woman in white—how he thought he saw the little man outside of the museum, and his meeting with Hera.

Percy, still lying prone on the couch, had long been done with talking by the time Paul opened the door, carrying a steaming bag filled with Thai food. He smiled proudly and held up the bag, about to comment on it getting cold when he saw how serious the room was. He set the food down and stood above Percy, mouthing to Sally, "was he fired?"

Sally frowned at him and shook his head. Speaking to Percy, she said, "why don't you call Camp. I'm sure we could figure something out with Dr. Carahan."

Percy didn't reply. Then Sally noticed the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and realized he was asleep. An innocent smile pulled at her lips, and she raised a finger to her lips and pointed to the kitchen. Paul nodded and lightly walked to the kitchen table and set down the food. Before joining her husband, she watched her sleeping son for any sign of a nightmare, but he was sleeping soundly, like he had when he was younger, before the demigod's dreams had began. She switched off the lights and closed the door to the kitchen, the only light was the slight crack under the door.

_Percy gets to his feet, brushing the dewy grass from his back and pants. He turns in a circle and everywhere he looks is a sea of green. The blades of grass churn and writhe from an invisible wind, a sheet of fog sinking from the grey sky. The wall of fog rolls closer to Percy, obscuring his meager view of the field._

* * *

_* reference to Razing of Camelot, Merlin and Percy Jackson fanfiction _

_i know its a little slow, but I'm trying to make this book/novel like_

_the story is in place of Heroes of Olympus and was slightly influenced by Camp Jupiter but OCs are the product of various literary influences as well as mostly original ideas._

_this story contains myths from many other cultures as well as legends and gods. Not all myths are real, but only a select few._

_**is it good enough to continue? Comment!**_

* * *

_preview of future story-_

The screaming echoed across the camp until every creature could hear the strains in her voice. They immediately ran to where Maggie stood, her fists clenched, her eyes squeezed shut. The first time she had had one of her episodes, no one had known what was happening. She had been smiling sweetly one moment and the next had jumped to her feet and began to howl, crying and wailing for so long that only Merlin was able to put her to sleep through magic. The next day Jaques, a dair beag, had gotten into a car accident after leaving camp.


	2. Celtic: Shay

**Celtic**

* * *

**"Nothing but darkness churned in the vast void of chaos."**

* * *

Shay hopped out of the grey sedan, her dark satchel slipped over shoulder, a boisterous smile plastered on her face. After quickly waving good-bye to her father, she bounded up the slight hill, only to stop at the peak. At first glance, she saw a petite cranberry bog and vegetable farm that halted just before a simple river, and behind the river stood a large farm house, an enormous, New English forest stretching into the sapphire sky.

But she closed her eyes and when she opened them again, the land had been completely transformed. The bog and farmland still colored the first quarter of the land, but now little lights flittered back and forth around the fruits and vegetables, whispering words to make them grow juicy and succulent. Usually, on an average day, the fields would be teaming with people, but now they were void of any human life. Running along the side of the camp, separating the fields, stables and a few of the shops from the rest of camp was a winding river, the Shannon, which continued deep into the dark woods, its waters growing warmer and more vibrant the closer it came to the heart of the forest.

Shay jogged over a wide, wooden footbridge, passing an arena where slashes and holes decorated the floor and walls, and crossed behind the enormous house that had become a medieval castle complete with a courtyard and surrounding wall. She drew her hand across the long ivy, reveling in the cool shadows and the moisture emanating from the stone. She debated going into the citadel, saying hi to the camp director and the others, but opted not to due to the late time. Something fluttered in the corner of her eye, drawing her attention past the castle.

Flying high and as bright as always, the golden flag rippled in the wind high above the pristine cabins it symbolized. The woven, white crown represented the Ryan Clan, the wishful rulers of Camp Na Darach. Their village was carefully oriented in the center of the living quarters, nearby their allies the Kellys and O'Connors. The three of them believed themselves to be the most powerful and most desirable to new campers, and therefore always banded together, doing each other favors and supporting blood feuds.

Past the O'Connors, Kellys, and Ryan's, at the base of a miniature valley and glade was the Byrne Clan. Built out of plain, dark oak, the cabins were ordinary and simple, the only difference between each being the individual sigil carved into the door.

Shay walked past the black and white flag, which was posted on the wooden fence surrounding the village, to the small cabin near the center of the village. Made of smooth oak, it was the size of a hunting cabin, two identical torches tacked to each side of the door. A magnificent emblem of a bow carved from a deer's antlers was carved into the skin of the door, an actual and simple archer's bow resting against the frame.

She pushed open the door, dropping her satchel on the table by the door. Everything was as she had left it, the only difference being a small dish that had been locked clean by Tom, one of the brownies from the local hive. Cleaned and neatly organized, Shay's recurve bows hung on their nails along the wall, her gear, arrows and quivers beside them.

Behind Shay, the floor boards creaked, Shay turning to find Aidan leaning against the door frame. His face was angled slightly, casting it in shadows and causing his normally brilliantly lazuli eyes to turn a royal blue. His arms were crossed nonchalantly, his eyebrows raised in amusement.

"You're late," he carped.

"No, I'm not," Shay argued. "It doesn't start till seven."

Aidan unhinged himself from the door and sauntered into the cabin. He nudged the tar and loose fletching feathers with his finger then confronted Shay. "The ceremony doesn't start till eight. The festivities and games start at _three_."

Shay cringed inwardly. She had promised that she would be on time for once. Still not willing to admit defeat, she continued, "I'm still not late."

"Sure you aren't, Corky. You just aren't on time."

"Out," Shay ordered, pushing a resistant Aidan out of the door. She snatched one of the recurve bows and a quiver filled with unique arrows then followed out of the cabin and the Byrne Village. As each cabin was placed in a village surrounded by fences or just clumped together, the nearest village of cabins was far enough away that there was always a secure divide between them. Each village was similar in every regard but one: before the entrance of each village was a flag of a color and sigil, amounting to nine different factions. Even though the houses held different gods, the children banded together to form clans, who challenged and created rivals amongst themselves. The Byrne flag was predominantly white with a black raven encircled in bright blue knots.

Although the villages seemed to be randomly scattered, the locations were chosen with care. As the Byrnes refused to associate with other clans and were too wild to be contained, they were on the edge of the living quarters. Each of the cabins were painted to the desire of the inhabitants as well as cared for, so many of them were superfluous and ornate.

More buildings scattered the camp's terrain, many of them school houses for learning technique, math, Irish, Welsh, or Scottish. But the most prominent building was Camelot, the majestic castle Shay had ran behind when she first arrived. It was where all decisions were made and were the camp director lived. It was built after the original, beautiful castle, completed with an ornate courtyard. And in the center of the courtyard stood a tree. Its roots dove deep into the earth, its boughs tall and ever reaching. Each leaf held the fate and knowledge of every quest and life that was born to the Celtic world.

Outside of the citadel, where Aidan and Shay were slowly approaching, an ever growing cluster of campers were assembling. They were cheering, egging on a fight between two boys, who were rolling in the mud of the Shannon River. Kate in the middle of everything and making almost all of the noise as usual. The loud, twenty year old girl was forcibly holding back Sean and Cam, who from the moment they had stepped foot in Camp Na Darach, had hated each other with a passion deeper than the roots of hell. And because the two leaders of the O'Connor Clan and the Smith Clan hated each other, the rest of the members of the clans hated each other.

Kate, who loved everyone and wanted to be everyone's friend, often came between any conflicts in the camp. Her clan, the O'Brien's, prided themselves on the fact they were the peacekeepers, and as Sean tried to fight with Cam, the kind hearted girl kept their viciousness hidden. Her frizzy red hair clung wetly to her neck and forehead, darkening the orange to a deep scarlet. One hand on each chest, she talked softly but loudly with enough force to calm a herd of stampeding wildebeests.

But resistant to every word she uttered, the two boys grew angrier and more forceful. They made their way around Kate, who scrambled away on her hands across the wet grass in order to avoid being trampled. Soon Sean and Cam were grappling and coursing over each other while the other clan leaders cheered on the brawl.

Maggie, the youngest of the clan chiefs, helped Kate to her feet and watched the fight in an interested manner. It was that moment that Aidan and Shay joined the mass. They watched attentively, Aidan noting that Cam was his usual ally, but both initially chose not to join the fight. Shay notched an arrow on her bow, but didn't have any conviction for firing it.

"What's going on?" demanded a rough voice, a voice that held a deep power and annoyance. Immediately, Kate dropped her hands and frowned softly at the director. Sean and Cam, however, were not so obedient and, with no one holding them back, lunged at each other once again. But they never touched, as they flew back onto their backs by a non-existant wind.

The director, frowning profoundly at the two boys, his crystal blue eyes alight with mirth and annoyance. As much as he loved every camper under his care, he could not stand to listen to some—and when they fought, it was the most annoying. Especially when he was trying to accomplish something. He often claimed they were the reason he was prematurely white, and not at all because he was over a thousand years old.

M, as many referred to him as, was not his true name. As his name had become associated with all sorts of strange allusions, campers elect to call him other forms, like Emrys or Myrddin, because now Merlin was thought of as some crazy wizard who lived backwards and was obsessed with turning young princes into animals. But Merlin did not have a beard that reached his belt, nor did he wear robes or a pointy hat covered in stars. Merlin cut his hair short and neat, as he had when he was younger. His cheekbones had become more prominent over the years, and his hands more boney, but he was nowhere near frail. His mind was as strong as the gods and much more powerful than any beast that threatened the camp.

A white beard covered the lower half of his face, and he often forgot to trim it, which resulted in the campers mocking him with Archimedes Owl references. His sweaters were knit and horribly dull, as were his old jeans. A mischievous smile always colored his face, even as he thought of his old friends over the years. And he was always first to plan revenge after children of Dwyn played pranks.

But now, he hid his amused side and glared angrily at the clan chiefs, who were supposed to set an example for the younger campers. "What are you _doing_?" He demanded.

Sean and Cam had the courtesy to look abashed but at the same time pissed for being interrupted. They mumbled something about being sorry, and retreated to opposite sides of the mass of _daracha beaga_. Merlin dropped his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes harshly. "I can't even sit in peace on a sacred day?" he sighed rhetorically. "You do realize what the _Conradh_ symbolizes, don't you?"

All the chiefs prepared themselves for what was to come next. Merlin took a deep breath, starting his pacing from one end of the gathered little oaks to the next. Shay held back a laugh as Aidan mimicked their director, hands behind his back and chest raised just like how Merlin was pompously walking.

"Hundreds of years ago, before King Uther and his kingdom of Camelot, the Celtic land was united, but the people were not. Thousands were slain in battle to further one man's ambitions. The slaughter continued until only small families, _clanna_, remained, and they were forced to stop and rebuild their numbers. But even the temporary peace was unable to last. Red armies from a distant land began to invade. With their golden eagles and short swords, the Romans came and attempted to destroy our culture and home. With barely any men, it would be impossible to defend their homes separately, but together it was a simple task. The Clans met to create a treaty, a _Conradh_, and from then on they repelled the Romans."

"Until the treaty expired, and they commenced to cut off one another's heads and scalping them once again," recounted Aidan in the same voice Merlin had used for storytelling. A wondrous voice full of admiration. Aidan smiled sheepishly under Merlin's glare.

"Fine. Mock your history. You'll be sorry when you need something but can't remember a minute but necessary detail."

Kate, who was politely smiling, was secretly glad Aidan had interrupted the story. Every year, Merlin spent hours detailing the battles. She rested a reassuring hand on the director's arm and smiled kindly. "Maybe we should start the games? That way we can celebrate the _Crann Na Beatha_ at twilight."

Merlin sighed heavily. He was undoubtedly complaining that no matter how much he stressed the importance of learning their history and legends. He waved his hands in surrender and backed away from the assembly. "I'm going to play cards. Just make sure no one dies!" He called over his shoulder before moodily sitting in his lawn chair underneath a weeping willow. No one thought he was serious until cards floated into the air playing solitaire.

"Huh," Aidan said. "Maybe I pushed him to hard."

Kate glared at him furiously, but Mark, the chief of Kelly, stepped forward and began to deliver the _Conradh_ Game rules. His sandy brown hair blew into his abnormally dark eyes, and he pompously brushed it out of his face. He thrived on teaching and leading the camp, often talking so loud and often only those in his clan listen. "Leaders, please declare your allies."

Predictably, Mark immediately found Sean and Brigid, of O'Connor and Ryan. They always combined their forces, although they didn't always work well together. Because of their deep, intense dislike of Aidan and other members of the other clans, they often chose each other. Just as the Byrnes, Shay's own village, found temporary allies in the Smiths and Walsh. Maggie, the youngest and most loved, allied the Murphy Clan with Ciara O'Aine and Kate O'Brien—who refused to acknowledge the pacts. The O'Briens, whose Patron was the goddess of the spring and healing, declared neutrality once it was founded, but all the members except Kate had agreed upon becoming allies.

"Let it be known that O'Connor, Kelly, and Ryan have become allies. The Byrne, Smith, and Walsh are one. Murphy, O'Aine, and O'Brien—"

"The O'Brien Clan respectfully decline to choose sides."

Mark looked at Kate flatly. "Murphy and O'Aine Clans are allied together while O'Brien members biasedly* aide them in their endeavors to win Capture the _Sidhe—"_

Aidan nudged Cam and Shay, silently telling them to back away behind Mark. Laughing as they left Mark explaining the rules of Capture the Mound, they ran towards the other side of the camp, where the rest of the campers were waiting. because the alliances were under the clan chief's decisions, the members of the clans had to wait somewhere else, so many waiting in the dining area. The Dining Pavilion was a large building, warm and stuffy inside but homey. The pub, the Triskele, was worn and loved, many of the tables scratched and filled with holes from knives and weapons that had bitten into the wood. As soon as Shay, Aidan, and Cam entered the room, a wave of steamy warm air enveloped them. It was completely packed with kids, some wearing moss green tee shirts, a large black tree surrounded by a circle in the center.

Na Darach was a home for kids of all ages, many of whom only lived their for the summer, but there were some who had to live at camp all year round because it was too dangerous or they had nowhere else to go. Behind the bar, Kirstin, daughter of Brigid, was more of a mother to the little ones than their godly parent, and she was always tending the bar and serving those who were hungry. Although more than half the camp was under age, many campers managed to sneak contraband into the building, so some form of alcohol always found its way circulating through the pub.

In the center of the crowded pub, a large crowd, obviously influenced by some form of moonshine, were yelling and calling threats to the two in the center of the ring. Shay, Aidan, and Cam forced their way to the front and were met with a girl and boy fiercely locking arms over a table covered with water and sweat and golden coins.

Branna, her short brunette hair slick with sweat, scowled, straining to crush her adversary's arm against the table. Small streaks of blue, green and red colored her pixie styled hair, a few tattoos gracing her arms. Being a daughter of the creator of martial arts, Branna was extremely strong for her age, bigger than most guys at the camp, and fierce in every fight. She began to smile the more Shawn's arm angled to the side, but a winner was never decided as Shay nudged the table with her foot, effectively shaking the surface and ruining the arm wrestling final.

Branna stared angrily at her chieftain and friend and slumped back in her chair. "What was that for?!" She demanded after gulping down the last of her water. The other campers shared her frustration, but knowing that all three newcomers were chiefs and that the reason they were there was for the start of the games, they snatched their money and quietly filed out of the pub to find their clan allies. Only the Smith, Walsh and Byrnes remained.

"So, what's the plan?"

"I say the Walsh guard the sidhe while the Smith make defenses and the Byrnes lead the attack," suggested Branna.

Cam and Aidan both scoffed at the idea, their teammates following the example.

"We don't follow your orders, crow," said one Smith. "And we definitely don't let you take all the credit for the win."

"So what do you suggest?" demanded Branna. "Leave the _sidhe_ to defend itself?"

"Why don't you defend it? Shay can shoot anyone who gets close to it."

Shay raised an eyebrow. She didn't exactly like taking orders either, not even suggestions of staying behind. "Half and half?" She said. "Branna, Jason, and Aidan will stay behind with a few campers, a mix of Smithers and Welshmen will take the Murphy/O'Brien/O'Aine mound while I and a few Byrnes will take out any campers we come across. We meet up and go for the Ryan, Kelly, and O'Connor _sidhe_."

Shay casually set down her quiver on the table, and strung her bow. She was itching to actually start moving, and sitting there planning was the worst part of being a leader in her opinion. She was fine with whatever they decided as long as she wasn't stuck playing guard dog—they had made enough of those jokes in the past. "Any complaints?"

Aidan raised his hand slowly. "Let's talk strategy."

* * *

Just before the Shannon entered the forest, a smaller, more controlled stream glittered in the basking glow of the sun. Giving a secluded feel to the Archery Range, which rested in a small glade before the woods, targets rested in the trees, bushes, and leaves. Among the trees and balanced perfectly on a bough, Shay forced herself to breath, to take in every aspect of her surroundings, no matter how small. She took a short breath, breathing in through her nose and blowing it out through her parted lips. Light, ash brown hair spiraled in the cool, slight breeze and struggled to break free of the twine holding it in its place. The locks tickled her face, the slight motion as obvious as someone's light caress.

Her brown boots were shoulder width apart, brown leggings tucked messily into the sheaths. Her back was as straight as a pin, her arms as tight as a marble statue. Her brown camisole was partly covered by a sweatshirt that closely fit her form. The green and moss colors, a mass of camouflage melted together in swirls and clouds, combined with the brown caused her to shift in and out of focus to anyone watching. Her quiver was only half full of arrows with golden fletching, one of the arrows balanced between her middle and forefinger.

She allowed herself to open her mind and accept every feeling, every sound, every flicker of motion. From the sparkling pain in her fingertips, the tickle of the feather against her cheek, to the slight creek in the cedar wood bow pulled tight, to the cricket singing a few feet to the right. A deep crackling, like the twisting and slow destruction of wood, alerted her to the near end of the bow.

Her brown hazel eyes speckled with golden veins scoured the trees like a hawk, latching onto her target. Shay sighted, tightened the string, and released. The string snapped, whipping the protective leather on her left forearm, and sent the arrow piercing through the air. A startled cry followed the release, but she did not stop to follow the painted target. She had already seen the flash of bright blue ink that had spurted from the paintball tip and covered the camper from head to toe, and the fact she never missed her target gave her assurance she had hit the enemy player.

Instead she faced behind her, bow drawn and a newly loaded arrow already notched on the string. The newly established target had been approaching from behind, but now he froze and instinctively raised his hands in the air.

"What are you doing here, Aidan?" Shay inquired suspiciously, gripping the bow loosely albeit firmly.

Aidan shrugged, a careless motion. Now overcoming his initial surprise, he resumed his usual, relaxed pose of a nonchalant demeanor. His shoulders slightly slouched, his thick, unruly black hair sleeked upwards. He was looking up at Shay from the ground, watching her drop effortlessly to the ground.

"Walking," he replied.

In response, Shay notched an arrow and tightened the bow, although she knew repeatedly using it when there was no need was careless. Even without concentrating, she could hear the strain in the wood.

"You can't shoot me," he said, eyeing the painted arrow aimed between his eyes.

"Well, I _can_ shoot you. It's not physically impossible."

"Yeah," Aidan frowned. "But we're allies."

Shay resisted the urge to release the arrow pulled tight. Instead she released the tension and let the bow fall to her side. She dropped and shook her head, sighing and shaking the bow. "I thought you were supposed to watch the sidhe, Aidan Cadfael Jones." She poked him in the chest accusingly with the tip of her bow. "That's what we agreed on."

"I got bored," Aidan shrugged. "No one came so I told Branna to handle it."

"And she listened to you, Welshman?"

Aidan pursed his lips. "Define listen." He raised his hands in defense under Shay's glare. "She agreed on defending the tree because she doesn't want to do extra chores," he said quickly, "but she said something about killing me in my sleep."

"Have any scouts come back yet from the Murphy's?"

"Yep. They're surprisingly strong for a bunch of seagulls," he laughed.

Shay caught Aidan's wrist and put her finger to her lips. The sound was so quiet a normal person would not have been able to hear it, but Shay knew someone was in the trees, somewhere to the left of her and Aidan. They were very good at finding their steps, but whoever it was stepped on a branch, breaking it in half. Aidan grasped the handle of his sword, an enormous broadsword whose blade was covered in a blue paint. Like Shay's arrows, the blade, when it came into contact with a camper's skin, painted the opponent in a blue to prove they had been 'taken out' of battle.

Shay dove out of the way in time for a knife to embed itself in a tree. Aidan jumped back in surprise and swiped his sword before him, catching a second knife in the air. Both blades were colored gold. Kelly's gold. Shay already had three arrows resting on her bow when she saw the adversary. She sighted and let loose one of the arrows, catching him on the shoulder.

He cursed vehemently ran back before Shay fired another arrow. She debated following him and completely taking him out of the game, but Merlin had often chastised her for stalking someone in the games. Instead, Shay prepared to fire another arrow, when three Ryan's and one O'Connor's stepped out behind her. She sighed. Sean smiled wickedly and fixed his grip on his spear. And spun it, hand over hand, until he had warned off two of the Ryan's, who moved on towards Aidan.

"Come on, Corcoran. Show me how that bow works in short range."

"Sorry, what did you say? I was lost in thought." Rapidly, Shay fired both arrows at one, nailing Sean's Ryan Clan accomplice in each shoulder. "It's unfamiliar territory."

Sean smirked. He lunged with the spear, carefully stepping and matching Shay's speed. She was able to block many of his attacks, using her bow as a shield to deflect the blows. Shay even used the string and wood to wrap around and lock the shaft of his spear. Sean tussled and yanked the wood, but Shay was too close for him to shake her. They locked arms, dancing across the floor, and took turns trying to push each other into the trees. Finally, when Shay could not hold on any longer, she released the spear forcefully, and rolled away, loading and arrow and firing. Sean was able to duck out of the way safely, but the arrow still hit a mark, splattering cerulean paint over one of the Ryan members and Aidan.

Shay loaded another arrow, and drew back the string—one too many times—and the bow snapped. Luckily, Shay had heard the warning sounds, and the string hadn't been the one to snap. Now, she held two halves of wood tied together by a piece of string. Useless, she tossed them away and took her last two painted arrows in her hands and wielded them as blades.

Aidan sputtered and tried to rub away the blue on his hand but only managed to spread it. Without admitting defeat, Aidan swung his sword with one hand at his last opponent, but since he fought with a large broadsword, he couldn't support it. He dropped his sword and fought the guy with his fists. Everyone knew Aidan was a skilled warrior, his father being the god of war and the Otherworld, and so when the kid saw he was going to lose, he jumped away, struggling to pull something out of his belt.

Sean saw this and lunged for the boy, yelling, "No! Wai—"

The kid threw the silver container in the middle of the four campers and flipped to his stomach, arms over his head. Sean also lunged backwards, but Aidan and Shay had no idea what the object was. Only when she saw the small, cylindrical container, Shay had time to think 'you have got to be kidding,' before it exploded and white paint flew everywhere. The grenade had been a new invention the Smith tribe had created and apparently had been sold to anyone who could afford it, including enemy clans.

She and Aidan flew back through the air, a slight tingling in their extremities and ringing in their ears. White paint covered everything from the trees to the tiniest little pebble on the ground. It looked like it had started to snow in the end of August, and the forest was like a winter wonderland.

Sean got to his feet, swaying slightly, and smacked his ally upside the head. One side of him was painted white, his hair forcefully blown to left by the dried paint. It would have been funny except Shay knew that she looked probably worse. Aidan beside her sat up and looked at Shay evenly. He was completely coated in a white veneer. From his inky black hair to the red laces of his sneakers, there was no color left besides the bright blue of his eyes.

Furthering their humiliation and disappointment, a battle horn echoed in the sky, signaling the end of the game. Soon more and more campers began to wander out through the trees, pausing only to laugh at the human snowmen and the effects of the paint grenade. Branna arrived second to last, splattered with golden and white cuts. She kicked Aidan in the shoe and angrily stalked by without saying a word, stopping only to help Shay to her feet. Last to walk by was Merlin himself.

"The Ryan's won!" He exclaimed joyfully, clapping amusedly and smiling malevolently at the sight of a very white archery range. "Good try, Corky, Danny boy. Maybe you should avoid falling for diversions and actually go for the weak point first." To make it even more disappointing, he patted Shay and Aidan on the back, murmuring something about winning next year.

Shay, Aidan, and Sean numbly began to follow the others back towards Camelot where the celebration would take place. Maggie, who had been left completely untouched by paint, ran besides Merlin and tugged softly at his sleeve.

"Merlin," came Maggie's sweet, quiet voice. Merlin bent over so he was eye level with the little blond girl. "Can I light the candles this year? I promise I'll be careful."

"Of course you can," smiled the old sorcerer.

The ten year old giggled with joy and skipped ahead over the nearest foot bridge, leaving the paint-covered rest to haggardly lumber back for the ceremony. Shay, thoroughly in white paint, angrily trudged past Aidan, knocking his shoulder as she went by. She wasn't truly angry with him, but if it weren't for him, the Welsh-Byrne-Smith alliance would have won. Aidan, knowing her anger, followed closely behind Shay until he jokingly picked her up, threatening to drop her in the water. The others had joined in, kicking up water and washing themselves off and clearing away all of the blue, white, and yellow paints. The adrenaline of the games was just wearing off, each clan becoming friends again when they heard a bloodcurdling scream. As one, they froze and turned, horrified, towards the citadel.

The screaming echoed across the camp until every creature could hear the strains in her voice. Shay and Aidan immediately ran ahead of the mass of campers to where Maggie stood, her fists clenched, her eyes squeezed shut. She was just inside the courtyard, unaware of anything around her, just like before—The first time she had ever had one of her episodes, no one had known what was happening. She had been smiling sweetly one moment and the next had jumped to her feet and began to howl, crying and wailing for so long that only Merlin was able to put her to sleep through magic. The next day Jaques DeLong, a _dair beag_, had gotten into a car accident after leaving camp, dying instantly on impact.

Maggie, the same exact pose as before, was perched in the courtyard of Camelot, her body rigidly straight and shaking. Her screams were so loud, the campers had to clamp their hands over their ears and stand feet away from the screeching child. Everything was exactly the same as her previous episodes, all except one thing. Her left hand was clenched and shaking from the tense muscles, her finger aimed straight at the Tree of Life, where leaves littered the ground like the shattering of gold and silver ores.

Once they saw the Tree, no one moved to comfort Maggie. The _Crann Na Beatha_ had been at camp since it was founded, Merlin had brought it with him when he had left the kingdom of Camelot, and it had always been standing tall. Now, cracks ran through the oaken base, bark was chipping off of the trunk, and the radiant leaves no longer glowed brilliantly. Instead, it was seeping shadows like twilight was pouring from its soul.

"_Dorme_," rasped Merlin.

Maggie collapsed to the courtyard and crumpled into Shay's arms, who had rushed forward to catch the falling girl. Her breathing was level and normal, but her skin was steamy and red, her pulse rapid and erratic. Shay stood and cradled Maggie in her arms as, slowly, campers came to surround the tree with Merlin at its head.

"It's not possible," "what's happening," and a chorus of "No!" Echoed across the courtyard. All heads turned to Merlin, for him to fix the tree. The tree was the life of the camp, the soul of each tree that shared its soil. Without the tree, the spirits would begin to die, and fate would have no grip on the world. And eventually, the Otherworld—the world of the Tuatha de Danann, the gods, and the dead—would fall away from the mortal world and disappear for good.

"Leave, now!" ordered Merlin. "Eat dinner then straight to bed!"

When no one went to move, he faced them angrily, a fierce glow burning behind his blue eyes. "LEAVE!"

No one had ever seen merlin act like that. Even after he told his stories of the Battle of Camlann, he never showed a furious side. Merlin' sure action to the sick Tree meant something horrible, and the campers felt it. As a whole, the Triskele was fairly silent. Even the leprechauns and bauchans were quiet as they ate, not even moving someone's seat as they went to sit down.

There was no singing or dancing like usual, and no one lifted their eyes from their food. Shay barely touched her food, a sickening feeling settled in her stomach. She had known something was going to happen to the tree, she just hadn't believed it. For over a month, she had been dreaming of different lands, and in each of those dreams, a crumpled, shattered tree rested in the center, like the universe was telling her the Tree of life was dying.

Aidan noticed Shay hadn't touched her food and nudged it towards her. "You have to eat," he whispered, not wanting to disturb the quiet room.

"I'm tired," she replied. "I'm gonna go to bed."

Branna watched her friend leave sadly, exchanging a worried glance with Aidan. The night was chilly, but Shay didn't mind so much. She tugged her jacket closer to her and followed the trail back to her village and her cabin. The torches, which lit themselves at twilight, were already burning beside her oaken door and inside her cabin.

She latched the door and fell on her bed, not bothering to change clothes.

_When she opens her eyes, she is in a land of winter. She is in a forest where snow falls without end, where her breath creates frozen smoke. The sky is black, raining tears of ice. Starry ice cloaks the tall trees, and soft snow powders the path less floor._

_No animals are wandering through the trees, of that Shay is sure. She hears only the slight tinkle as a flake of frozen water strikes the powdered ground and nothing more. She sees only darkness and a slight aura glowing off of the snow and the trees, lighting the way._

_Shay pulls her jacket closer to her body and hugs in the warmth she still possesses, and she beings to traipse through the snow that pulls and drags her deeper into its white clutches. It isn't long until she hears noises that are not those of the woods. First it sounds as if something heavy is being pushed across the snow, like a sled or carriage. It is followed by groans of fatigue and a maniacal cackle that echoes off of the trees and deep into the earth and high into sky and clouds. Thud, sh, thud, sh. The creature cackles again, and Shay moves toward the sound. With every step she takes, a third sound grows. This is similar to that of chattering teeth, a clicking without rhythm._

_Shay walks into a clearing and finds a house surrounded by a fence with glowing torches. The hovel is no ordinary cabin, but one that balances on chicken legs and creaks and moans as if it was alive. The fence is built of human skulls that move to watch Shay as she comes closer to the house. She is tempted to go into the house, but something stops her. The sound of the sled and the cackling has stopped. Instead she hears the breath of hunger and cupidity somewhere in the trees. Shay searches the line of trees for the source but finds nothing. She walks closer to the end of the clearing, towards a place where the shadows seemed darker and more collected. She reaches a hand out to the darkness—_

_The sound Shay had heard before repeats itself, this time without echo or distance to distort the sound. Shay turns to find an old woman forcing her way through the heavy snow. Her sled is round and unwieldy, causing her to grunt in the effort. The crone stands in the bowl and uses a lever to row through the frozen water, the staff stout and thick on the bottom and pared and thin at the top. The hag pushes and pushes, nearing the hovel in the center. She screeches and cackles with laughter, and the gate opens._

_"Hello," Shay calls to the woman. However the hag does not face the girl or even acknowledge her. She just continues her journey to her home. As she forces her mortar over the frozen land, an unbelievable feather circles down from the sky. The color of flame and ember, it glows and burns away the snow and ice. Shay reaches out, but she is too far away. The crone's hand snakes out and snatches the burning feather._

_Again, Shay feels compelled to follow and enter the shack, but she elects not to. Instead, she walks away. She weaves through the fir trees and their ensnaring branches filled with snow. They snatch and reach for the girl, but their boughs are heavily laden with ice and snow, which prevents them from reaching far and quickly._

_Shay does not know where she is walking, but only knows to course straight ahead. Distantly, she sees a slope in the forest floor, a decline in the snow, which reveals the existence of a road. Just as everything in the forest is, the path is covered in snow as a river is filled with water, the white rapids coursing north and south._

_She walks and rambles along the side, enjoying the simplicity of the forest. Nothing but the pattern of the trees changes. Only slivers of ice, furless trees, and the breath of smoke break the eerie silence of the woods. Until the symmetry is shattered by a break in the road, a tree in the center of the trail. The tree, like all times, is rotten at the roots. It holds no leaves, and even the ice cannot freeze on the bark. It looks as if a fire had burned away all of its life and nothing remains. Broken boughs lay along the road, acting as arrows for either direction._

_One stretch of the snowy road leads further into the woods, the other to where trees grow scarce. An infinitesimal light burns away the darkness there, and an enthralling voice whispers and caresses Shay's mind. She waits and thinks of which way to take, her mind drifting towards the left and where the light and voice come. Still, the light flickers and blows in the wind, like it is dying from the cold. Shay feels a sadness prickle her mind. Something about the light gives her hope, and dolor._

_The crack of a branch alerts her to something behind her. Slowly and in one swift motion, she spins to face the source. What she finds is an enormous hound who blinks back at her, its fur the color of coal, its eyes as blue as the azure sky. The wolf's body is as big as a horse, its maw strong and able to crush a mountain's peak. Its eyes follow Shay's movement with mirth, a humanistic smile spreading its lips. It breathes heavily, blowing hot, rank air against her face._

_"Hello," the wolf says._

_"Hello," Shay replies. She turns back to the left and the light, but whatever had been there is now gone._

_"What are you looking for, lapushka?" queries the wolf with genuine curiosity._

_"Nothing," she answers and faces the hound. "Who are you?"_

_"I am Seryi Volk. The guardian," he says, padding across the snow and circling Shay._

_"Guardian of what?"_

_"Of these forests." The wolf comes to stop before the girl and rests on its haunches so it is eye level with Shay. He stares into her eyes, and she stares back. Its eyes, the blue of Hell's sky, burns from the wolf's grey fur. They are unnaturally bright, caring. They remind her of a distant memory, but she cannot think of what. "Now, what were you searching for?"_

_"I heard something. I heard the voice of someone who desired the world and harbored gluttony greater than a fire's."_

_The wolf regards Shay and listens to her words, finally coming to stand. He begins to walk to the bend in the road and a stone that rests in the center. Words are etched into the granite surface, but snow and ice now fill and cover the cracks, rendering it impossible to read._

_"Be careful, lapushka, for those who travel one of these roads become lost while the other becomes death."_

_"How do I choose?" She asks the hound._

_"You do not. Your path is already chosen."_

_Shay looks back at the snow-bound road and finds there is no longer a break but a single path. The stone now lays cracked and shattered in shards of ice to the side of the road. When she tries to ask the wolf what had happened, she finds he is gone as well. Not even prints in the snow reveal where he has gone. She can see something—someone at the end of the path. It looks to be a woman with long, beautiful hair and billowing robes. Before Shay can see anything more, the woman beckons Shay and withdraws into the darkness._

_Shay steps once then again and hesitantly allows herself to be drawn towards the end of the pathway._

Shay gasped, her back plastered to her sheets. Her body hurt and was shivering perpetually, a cold sweat freezing against her skin. She looked around her little cabin, the few items that decorated the walls. She had no _dair beag_ siblings in the camp, she only had step-siblings, who stayed at home with her dad and step-mom. She was all alone in her room, alone to shiver and scream from night terrors. She didn't mind it for the most part.

She had friends in her clan, Byrne, and she had complete control over what happened and how the cabin looked. Her many bows lined the wall while there was only one quiver. Spare arrows, fletching a, tartar, and shafts were piled on her oak table, her hunting daggers set next to them and left unsharpened. Some plants and herbs hung from wires laced across the ceiling, drying the stems and leaves for medicinal uses. There is a tapestry hanging on one wall, depicting a great, black raven carved with blue knots on a white surface, the Byrne coat of arms. It did not look like a typical teenage room, but Shay didn't spend much time inside. She preferred to hang in a tree, hunt, or simply run through the woods, often skipping school to do so.

She hoped out of bed, her bare feet tingling slightly against the cold, wooden floor. The boards creaked slightly as she tip-toed to the door, though she had no reason to sneak around. Grabbing a new bow and quiver of arrows, she left her cabin. The torches were still burning outside of her door, the other cabins lit with the same golden flames. The Byrne Clan was the more disorderly family, often the more reckless and wild of the celts. Their cabins were tightly knit but also spread out randomly, perched under the crook of a small hill. Skatha's cabin, as Shay crept through the village, was immediately to the right of Shay's own—which was fitting as Branna was Shay's second in command. After Skatha's was a mix of nature gods and cunning, wild deities' children. To be a Byrne, it was expected that they were cunning, wild, and practically fearless—though the last attribute would be disputed at every clan meeting. Often the only common trait was the dislike of authority figures, or fake ones that the Kellys believed to be.

Shay began to jog once she had passed the fence that guarded her clan, trotting towards the forest like any time she felt unnerved, gliding by the Murphy's village. She knew exactly where everything was, even if she couldn't see it in the dark. It was second nature to her, to be in the woods. Just as her mother was, Shay protected the forest and to do that, she thought she had to _become_ the forest. Flidais was the goddess of nature and the hunt, protect rests of all things wild, and Shay was almost exactly like her—all the way down to the gift of shifting.

Her feet found all of the places bare of leaves and twigs, leaving no sound, and Shay was able to navigate the forest. The forest, over ten acres thick, covered most of the land. Monsters, beasts, and wood-wose lived under the leaves and protection of the trees. But no more danger awaited under the trees than it did outside the protective barriers, so Shay didn't worry about venturing into the trees at night and alone. She always brought her bow with her, so she always had a way of protecting herself.

Not only that she knew the land and had her bow, the little secluded glade she always retreated to was out of bounds to monsters—she had never seen one in all the years she had been going there. It was surrounded by a ring of trees and a wall of miniature rocks that created a bluff for bushes and trees to overlook a peaceful pond, a small estuary that came from the River Shannon. Flat rocks surrounded the pool, fairies and water sprites glowing iridescently below the water's surface. Flowers that opened only to the light of the moon bloomed underneath a large oak, bigger than all the rest. Carved deep into the ancient bark was a face, the connection of the Otherworld to the mortal world, Father Oak.

Careful not to disturb anything, Shay perched herself on the edge of one of the stones and sat, watching the full moon reflect on the still water. Shay's eyes traced the outline of the trees and the broken arrow shafts embedded in the targets. She had no idea how long she had been sitting there, but once she heard the stone fall from its perch, she immediately drew her bow and aimed the _iarann_-tipped arrow at the intruder, no hesitation. A little man was standing on the overhanging rocks, partially hidden by the bushes, and was smiling unnervingly at Shay, his black, glittering eyes mischievously followed her movement, the wrinkles in his face from a lifetime of mirth.

"Pretty night, ain't it?" He cooed, his lips spreading to show crooked, yellow teeth.

"Sure," Shay replied, relaxing her grip and sitting back down on the rock. The leprechaun leapt down from his place on the miniature bluff. Despite his larger stomach, his feet lightly touched the ground, although causing a low wind to lift the nearby leaves. He looked at the rock placed besides Shay, asking with his eyes. She nodded, and he plopped down, his stubbed feet skimming the skin of the water.

"What do you want?" Shay asked after a few minutes of silence.

"Shouldn't yeh be in bed, Corky?" The leprechaun prompted, ignoring the question.

"Couldn't sleep," she replied, eyeing the bauchan suspiciously. She hadn't seen him ever before, yet he knew the name her friends called her. Her suspicions were furthered as he continued his musings, "Mm, I'd imagine those dreams are worrisome."

Shay shot to her feet so quickly, she knocked the little man over. He grumbled as he righted himself, brushing off the dirt and water from the pond, but a smile tore his satisfied faces he continued to brush himself off as he spoke, "now the dreams added to the Tree of Life dying... I'd be outside me-self, trying to do everyting I could."

"Merlin is trying to heal it." Shay said coolly. "If he can't save it, no one can." She began to turn away and return to her cabin. Like many celtic sprites, leprechaun's were tricksters and untrustworthy, and often refused to give up until their want is met.

"But dere is a way," the leprechaun called, smiling in glee as Shay froze and, despite all warning bells, turned back to the dwarf. "Dere is a way for yeh to save yehr camp."

"Tell me."

"Eh, eh, eh. What would I get in return?"

"A chance to live," Shay growled, twirling an arrow menacingly between her fingers. "Now, tell me!"

"Fine," the leprechaun relented. "It's in New York. At the Museum of Natural History."

"But what is it?"

The leprechaun paused, thinking and biting his worn lip. All of the sudden, he smiled foully and jumped back up the bluff he had come from earlier. He waved at her and jumped again, disappearing from sight. With a pop, he appeared beside Shay, taking the bow from her loose grip. When she lunged for him, he disappeared and reappeared again, this time across the small pond. He waved Shay's bow at her, lifting a handful of arrows in the other hand. She hadn't noticed him taking them, and she cursed herself for it.

"A bronze Riptide."

_pronunciation- I'll try my best to put pronunciations down at the bottom, but since Irish has many different pronunciations due to accents and location, it's kind of hard. I'm going for County Cork or Southern Irish._

_Conradh = Kon-ruh = Treaty_

_Dwyn = Doo-in_

_Daracha Beaga = Daraka Be-yuga = little oaks_

_Crann Na Beatha = Crown Noh Beh-huh = Tree of life_

_Sidhe = Shee = mound_

_Dair beag = door (like the English word) be-yug = little oak_

_Iarann = eer-own = iron_

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**_*biasedly is in dispute of whether or not it's a real word_**

**_hopefully this was as fun to read as it was to write. As always if there are any grammatical mistakes or if it's confusing just PM me and I'll fix it up._**

**_COMMENT please! It encourages me to write more and faster when I know people want it!_**

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_preview of next chapter_

_Red. Tearing through the soldiers and all Matt saw was red. Blood of the masses spilled from the wounds. The Trojans hopelessly strike him. With a flick of the wrist, they lay dead on the bloody field, and soon there was no one left to challenge the indomitable warrior._

_A man, donned in simple, metal armor, exits his safety and charges the lone boy in the center of the blood-soaked ground. He graces himself with a spear and prayer to his gods before offering a truce—a promise to return the body to their family._

_"There are no binding oaths between men and lions" (310 Iliad)._


End file.
